He was 13 pounds, 6 ounces at birth, the eighth Butkus kid but the first born in a hospital. Good thing too; he was a "blue baby" and needed to be incubated for a week.

At his family's four-room house at 10324 S. Lowe Ave. in Roseland on the South Side, Butkus shared an 8-by-10 room with four brothers.

His mother didn't cut his hair for the first three years of his life. She was hoping for a girl.

Emma Butkus, the tough, spirited matriarch, worked 50 hours a week at Monarch Laundry and still managed to tend to her army.

Her husband, Don, an electrician, was a gentle survivor of concentration camps but a man of fierce determination. The Lithuanian immigrant was uncomfortable with the English language and very reticent.

His youngest son didn't talk much, either, because he was so shy.

"He would look down all the time," said Rick Bertetto, who met Butkus when they were registering for kindergarten, was nicknamed "Butkus' Mouthpiece" in high school and remains as close to him as anyone.

When Butkus signed with the Bears, he gave his parents his $6,000 signing bonus. They bought burial plots.

He also tried to buy them furniture, but they refused. They did accept live chickens.

Despite being crowded, the Butkus house was well cared for. The white-picket fence out front always seemed newly painted.

This is Butkus now

About eight years ago, curiosity got the better of Butkus, and he made a trip back to Roseland. The house was still there, but the fence was gone.

The current owner told him she should have kept the fence up and that the neighborhood had become dangerous. He could see.

Home these days is the city where "Gidget" was filmed. Of the nearly 13,000 residents of Malibu, Calif., nearly half might have been on your TV screen. Butkus moved there in 1982 to pursue an acting career.

The modern glass and wood Butkus home sits on a bluff overlooking the Pacific Ocean and is as far from South Lowe as Mercury is from Pluto.

"I never thought this kid would leave the South Side of Chicago," said Ed O'Bradovich, his former teammate and roommate with the Bears. "In my wildest dreams, I never would have believed he would have moved to California of all places."

But where Butkus lives is not a reflection of who the man has become; rather it is a reflection of what was convenient for the man.

"Malibu has been good to him, but I don't think he ever saw himself as a California guy," Bertetto said. "He still identifies with working-class guys. Any time we are in a restaurant, he always gives me some money to slip to the bus boys. Those are the kind of people he is concerned about."

That was Butkus then

By the fifth grade, Butkus knew.

He competed in swimming, water polo and baseball, but he was obsessed and driven to succeed at a sport he had played only in the sandlot.

At Chicago Vocational High School he was a dominant fullback, but he preferred linebacker, where he made 70 percent of his team's tackles.

At the University of Illinois, Butkus was an All-American twice and won the Tribune's Silver Football as the Big Ten's best player in 1963. The Bears picked him third overall in the 1965 NFL draft, one pick ahead of Gale Sayers.

He became an eight-time Pro Bowler and a first-ballot Hall of Famer. In 1970, the New York Times asked 22 NFL head coaches to name five players they would pick to start a team. More chose Butkus than any other player.

Of all the things Butkus can be proud of, he is proudest of having a vision at age 10 that he willed into reality.

This is Butkus now

Butkus enjoys telling stories the way older men do. But he often tells them with the mischievous grin of a young man.

He doesn't look as tall as his listed height of 6-foot-3 anymore. He is maybe 15 pounds heavier than his playing weight of 250.

He will celebrate his 50th wedding anniversary with his high school sweetheart, Helen, in July.

"He's crazy about her," said former Bear Doug Buffone, who also roomed with Butkus for a time. "She has been right there with him every step of the way. And he is true blue, always has been."

Helen and Dick are mom and dad to Nikki, 46, Rick, 45, and Matt, 40. And they are grandparents to Ian, 13, Gavin, 8, Ricky, 1, and Raymond, 9 months. They enjoy watching their grandkids' sporting events quietly from the stands.

For him, the oldies are best. But he watched "Titanic" again recently.

"That movie blows me away with that damn song and everything," he said.

When he drives, he listens to The Great Courses, lessons from leading professors.

And he lives for a good practical joke. When Butkus visited Mayor Richard M. Daley with some friends and lined up behind the mayor's desk for a photo, the silence was broken by a muffled, trumpet-like sound that startled and appalled others in the room — Butkus' fart maker.

He carries one in his briefcase and another in his golf bag.

That was Butkus then

Lions running back Altie Taylor once saw Butkus charging at him full speed and stepped out of bounds before he could be hit. This so angered Butkus that he kept chasing Taylor out of bounds. In fact, he chased him clear into the stands at Soldier Field.

When Taylor finally got back to the huddle, he told teammate Charlie Sanders, "That man's crazy."

An official in a 1971 Bears-Dolphins game might have thought the same thing. He popped out of a pile holding out his finger, which was covered with blood. Butkus allegedly walked away with a sly grin and reddish teeth.

"I used to line up at the outside linebacker position and look inside," Buffone said. "I'd see him hulking over the center. He always had a little blood trickling down his face. I don't know if he would cut himself or what. But I'd always say to myself, 'Thank you, Lord, he's on my side.' "

In October 1971, Playboy described Butkus: "He's the meanest, angriest, toughest, dirtiest son of a bitch in football. An animal, a savage, subhuman."

Such perceptions never sat well with Butkus. But he didn't do much to change them.

In his playing days, Butkus once told an interviewer, "I sometimes have a dream where I hit a man so hard his head pops off and rolls downfield."

"I was just saying (expletive) to go along with what everybody wanted," he said. "It actually was playing a role."

Little known fact: Butkus used to pray that no one would get hurt in his games — even opponents.

Butkus has a profound way of looking at football's role in his life.

"He always said God blessed him to have exactly what he needed to be a linebacker — short legs and a long torso," Bertetto said. "He felt he always had to respect that."

Butkus is a parishioner at Our Lady of Malibu and occasionally visits Serra Retreat, for which he helped raise money for a new chapel through a golf tournament.

However, he still doesn't get it when he sees players from opposing teams praying together after games. Butkus, who refused to speak to certain rivals when they were teammates at the Pro Bowl, never will understand fraternization between opponents.

When he would bring Butkus Award finalists together, he would shake his head when he saw them exchange phone numbers.

In one memorable game at Soldier Field, Sanders hit Buffone square in the chops with a forearm on a crackback block, knocking out three of Buffone's teeth. When Buffone came back to the sideline, bleeding profusely, Butkus wanted to know who was responsible.

Later in the game, when Sanders came across the middle with his eyes on a pass, Butkus drilled him in his chest, laying him out.

"Cold-cocked me," Sanders said. "Hardest I ever was hit."

In another game at Tiger Stadium, the Lions tried playing an I-formation against the Bears. Before the game was through, Butkus had knocked every member of the Lions' "I" — center, quarterback, fullback and halfback — out of the game.

The Lions once had a game against the Bears out of reach with a minute or so left and were trying to kill the clock. After their first play, Butkus jumped up and yelled, "Timeout," startling teammates.

"We line up," Buffone said. "He is over the top of the center Ed Flanagan, then takes four, five steps back. The center snaps it, and Dick comes running 100 mph and just smashes the center. Then he jumped up and called timeout again. He just wanted three more cracks at the center before the game ended."

This is Butkus now

At 70, Butkus might have to find a new way to be Butkus. The myth of the indestructible legend is starting to crumble.

"He has had a tough adjustment accepting what comes with age," Bertetto said. "He struggles with the things everyone struggles with, but he has an image people expect him to uphold. People still think of him as this huge, powerful NFL player."

Opponents weren't the only ones who had to pay for those violent Butkus hits.

Before Butkus got his arthritis under control, his rheumatologist said it was the worst case he had seen in 30 years. He couldn't walk without crutches, and it hurt everywhere.

"Even my teeth," he said.

He has had elbow surgery and two knee surgeries, including a knee replacement. He has two large scars on his right knee, one of which is about 11 inches long.

Butkus walks with a pretty good limp.

He can't raise his toes as a result of an impinged nerve in his back. That's a problem when he tries to play golf, so he doesn't play much anymore. At least not well.

Butkus never lifted weights when he was playing. He didn't discover the benefits of training until after he retired. He now has eight Nautilus machines in his house.

Among his training mantras is: "You aren't working out hard enough if the pain isn't making you very angry."

Do not expect Butkus to go gently into the dark night. He has been lifting so hard, the last time he went to get his blood pressure taken he needed a bigger cuff to fit around his arm.

While his body is battered, his mind is sharp. He says he doesn't think he had any concussions, but he was knocked out once. He sat out one quarter before he went back in, thinking the game was just beginning.

He understands the fuss about head injuries but doesn't understand why so many of his contemporaries are suing the NFL because of their concussions.

"It's fine if they are doing it for the right reason, to make an improvement in the game," he said. "But if they want to get compensated now for back then, I don't see how they are entitled to anything. Who knew anything about this then?"

That was Butkus then

It did not end well for Butkus in Chicago. Nine games into a four-year contract in 1973, his right knee no longer would allow him to play. The Bears insisted he still should play, but four independent specialists disagreed.

The Bears refused to pay him, and George Halas, his first coach and the owner of the team, advised Butkus to get a lawyer. He did and filed suit. It would be the last time the two spoke for five years.

"It was like I had leprosy," Butkus said. "They were spreading rumors I wouldn't play because of my pain tolerance."

The court of public opinion turned against Butkus. Even his brothers questioned him. Butkus didn't feel at home in Chicago anymore and moved to Florida, dismayed about his Bears experience.

When he retired, his wife kept a number of mementos from his playing days, but they were stored in a Florida barn and many were damaged. Butkus threw everything in a trash bin.

Eventually the Bears settled with Butkus out of court, agreeing to pay him the full value of his contract.

In 1979, Butkus and Halas spoke one last time. Butkus asked Halas if he would sign a copy of Halas' autobiography, "Halas By Halas."

In it, Halas wrote, "To: Dick Butkus. The greatest player in the history of the Bears. You had that old zipperoo."

And with that, the feud was over.

"I have nothing to apologize to them, or them to me," Butkus said. "I was pissed then because I didn't understand what they were trying to do. I understand now; it's a business."

He rekindled his association with the team in a nine-year stint as the radio analyst before he tired of the travel. The Bears retired his No. 51 in 1994.

One of his proudest moments came in 2004, when the team unveiled the Soldier Field sculpture in which he, Halas and seven other Bears Hall of Fame players are immortalized. He felt honored and humbled to be on the same stone with Halas, one of the league's founding fathers.

Butkus looks forward to watching the team on television, and like most of the people in the stands, he frequently is frustrated.

"I get embarrassed when they are embarrassed," he said. "They are successful in spite of themselves. One time I told Halas, 'With the history and everything the Bears have, why don't you have the best of everything?' He got up. I thought he was going to take a poke at me."

That was Butkus then

Butkus could have become Mike Ditka.

He felt coaching was in his blood. When he was negotiating his last contract as a player, he asked for a clause that would have made him a player-coach. After his knee wouldn't let him play anymore, he offered to be an assistant coach at a lesser salary.

He was rebuffed on both requests.

"I was naive," he said. "I thought because I played with the Bears I would eventually coach there."

In 1979, he had an opportunity to be a special-teams coach for the Lions. He said no.

"For me it would have had to be in Chicago," Butkus said. "But that was impossible."

He still thinks about the what-ifs sometimes.

"Who knows?" he said. "Maybe I wouldn't have been worth a (expletive) as a coach. Maybe I would have expected too much of these guys to be and play and practice like I did. That might have been a big flaw."

This is Butkus now

A series of popular beer commercials led to acting opportunities for Butkus. He has appeared in about 250 commercials, 40 television series (several in recurring or co-starring roles) and several movies.

In the beginning, he played Dick Butkus. But then he was able to overcome the dumb-jock stereotype and spread his thespian wings. He took acting classes and worked at the profession the same way he worked at football.

Before the camera, he has gazed into Wonder Woman's eyes and brawled with Nick Nolte. He particularly enjoyed being a regular on the educational teen sitcom "Hang Time" and his role as Brom Bones in the TV movie "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow."

There isn't much acting work for him these days, and that's fine. Hell, he was a football player.

That was Butkus then

When Butkus and Bertetto walked to school every day, they would stop at an open patch of grass, get on their knees, take a rolled-up piece of paper and play football — for as long as they could

"He had that unmistakable passion for the game when he was 6 or 7," Bertetto said.

"People say, 'If you were playing today, think of how much money you would have made,' " Butkus said, growing annoyed at the thought. "I say, 'What are you talking about? You think I played for money?' "

This is Butkus now

As much as Butkus loves the game, it seems the game loves him more.

Still.

Thirty-nine years after his last snap, the Butkus image is revered. He thinks his popularity has grown in retirement.

Until recently, he drove to Las Vegas a few weekends every month for autograph shows. For $69.99, he signed an 8-by-10 photo. For $199, he signed white-logo footballs.

To the felt-marker set, the Bellagio show "O" had nothing on the greatest player in the history of the Bears. Fans lined up out the door for him. They came from Chicago, sure. But they came from everywhere.

On one day, he signed for people from Denmark, Scotland, England, Australia, Mexico, Ecuador, Panama, Honduras, Costa Rica, Germany, Saudi Arabia, South Africa, France and Canada.

He decided to give up the signings to spend more time at home.

The hospital where Butkus had his life-saving scan in Orange, Calif., now features a building called the Dick Butkus Center For Cardiovascular Wellness.

Given a second chance in life, Butkus campaigns for former players, retired military, policemen and firemen to take advantage of complimentary heart screenings there. And he crusades passionately against steroid use.

"That's my payback," he said.

On Wednesday, he testified at a U.S. Senate hearing on human growth hormone and the NFL.

From destroyer to guardian, life has come full circle for Butkus at 70.

Some things never change, though.

Because of his arthritis, Butkus takes medication that makes him susceptible to infection. When he expressed concern about having to shake so many hands, he was advised to fist bump instead.

He tried it. Then one day a fan extended his hand as if to shake and didn't see the bump coming.

Clayton Richard pitched six innings of one-run ball and hit an RBI double Sunday as the Cubs held on for a 4-3 victory over the Brewers. Closer Hector Rondon allowed three hits in the ninth before retiring Logan Schafer on a line drive to center field with the tying run at second to end the game....

For many sports fans, nestling into their seats at an arena to root for their team is a comfort zone, an athletics tradition. But for others, spectatorship is a quest. Some fans are on a mission to visit every MLB stadium or every sports hall of fame. Others have sports bucket lists that are a...